The Pelletorium
Auntie Finny suddenly appeared. "Cricket hunter. You're perfect. You see, here in our lovely stone country the cricket season is much longer. They hide in the nooks and crannies and then come out in the sunshine to bask in the heat of the day."
"Uh ..." Soren started to speak. "I'm feeling a little peckish, you know, Auntie. I think maybe the pelletorium would be better for me."
"Oh, the pelletorium!" Auntie Finny looked slightly confused. She had never had an owlet suggest another workstation or training schedule. She looked at the Barn Owl. He didn't look well. And if he failed as a cricket hunter, it would reflect poorly on her. And then again, if she fulfilled this owl's request, it would perhaps put him in her debt. It was always good to have an owlet indebted to you. "Yes, yes. I suppose so." She gazed at the young owl. Soren felt the soft yellow glow of her eyes. "Now, remember, dear, what I've done for you and remember the little" --
she beaked the word -- "'nap' I allowed you." The yellow light turned a bit hard like glinting gold. "Then follow that line over there into the pelletorium."
"I am 47-2. I am to be your guide for the pelletorium. Follow me." The owlet spoke in a peculiar manner.
Her sounds were clipped and hollow. It was not like the terrible thrum and clang of Jatt and Jutt, but it was like no owl sound Soren had ever heard.
Soren and Gylfie followed number 47-2, who had begun to march. Soon, they heard the click of all the owlets' talons as they struck the ground, for they were once more marching in time. Now the strange hollow tone in which 47-2 had spoken seemed to hover over the vast rrassembly of owlets.
They were singing!
Every pellet has a story all its own. Every pellet has a story all its own. With its fur and teeth and bones And one or two stones, Every pellet has a story all its own.
We shall dissect every pellet with glee. Verhaps we'll find a rodent's knee. And never shall we tire In the sacred task that we conspire, Nor do our work less than perfectly And those bright flecks at the core, Which make our hearts soar, Shall forever remain the deepest mystery.
Nothing could have prepared Soren and Gylfie for the shock of what met their eyes as they entered the pelletorium. They had been led into another box canyon, and on slabs of rock ledges hundreds of owls bobbed their heads up and down over thousands of pellets that had been yarped by owls. If either one of these two little owlets had known the meaning of the word "hell," they would have known that this was certainly the deepest and worst part of it. But neither Soren nor Gylfie in their short lives knew of such things as hell or the words that would describe such a place. Until their snatching, they really had only known what might be called heaven. Life high in a lovely tree hollow or cactus lined with the downy fluff of their parents, plump insects delivered several times a day, and then the first juicy mouse morsels. And besides all the delicious meals, there were stories -- stories of flight, of learning to fly, of the feeling that must be deep in their gizzards in order to rise on the wind.
Number 47-2 stepped up to them and, in her weirdly
hollow voice, she began to speak. "I am what is called a third-degree picker. I pick through the pellets for the larger objects -- pebbles, bone, and teeth mostly. Second- degree pickers pick for feathers and fur.
First-degree pickers pick for flecks. This is a fleck." 47-2 pointed with her talon to the tiniest speck that glinted in an open pellet. "It is a kind of metal." She paused. "Or something," she added vaguely. "You need not know what they are. You need only know that flecks are precious, more precious than gold. To become a fleck picker is the highest level of skill in the pelletorium. Tomorrow I shall be advanced one level. I shall be a second-degree picker. Therefore, as the most advanced third-degree picker, it is my task to instruct you." And then the owlet blinked. She began humming the dreadful song.
"It is best when beginning as a picker to use your beak. Your talons can be used to steady the pellet.
Each object you find is to be lined up neatly on the stone ledge -- your work area. Failure to line up objects neatly is a most serious offense. Offenders are severely punished, as shall be demonstrated during our laughter therapy sessions."
Soren and Gylfie had no idea what this owlet was talking about. Laughter therapy? "Do your work diligently and you, too, may be advanced someday." The owlet then stepped up to the ledge, which was covered with pellets,
and bent over one. "Proceed. It is strictly forbidden to use your own pellets in this work." 47-2 glared at Soren. The owlet bent her speckled head and began to pick. Soren felt a gagging sensation and yarped another pellet. Soren and Gylfie had no idea how long they had been working. It seemed endless. It was not entirely quiet, however. At certain intervals, a low soft whistle alarm would be sounded from one of the smaller owls who monitored the work from overhead ledges and the sound of another pellet song would begin to rise. The songs were sung in the same hollow tones in which 47-2 had spoken. But Soren felt that they were sung mostly to provide a rhythm for their work. The words, he supposed, like their own non-number names, had become meaningless. In between the songs it was not completely silent. There were, of course, certain commands that had to be given. "New pellets needed in area 10-B." Or "Area 20-c needs to pick up the pace." And then there was some talk among the owls as they worked, but the more carefully Soren and Gylfie listened, the stranger this talk seemed. And then suddenly an owlet working at the same ledge as Soren began to speak. "12-1. I feel perfect this morning. I have just completed my first set of pellets. I am sure you shall feel perfect, too, when you have completed your first set. It is a feeling of rare contentment to complete a set. I feel this sense of rare contentment every morning at this hour."
Rare? Soren thought. That was a word he knew, for his parents had told them that the family of Barn Owls to which they belonged, the Tyto Alba, had become rare, which meant there were not many of them. So how could this owlet's contentment be rare if it happened every morning at a particular hour?
"I, too, feel perfect." Another owlet now spoke, turning toward Gylfie this time. It was nearly the same speech.
At regular intervals now, the two owls turned alternately to Soren and Gylfie and gave short little reports on their states of contentment. On occasion, these reports became interspersed with comments. "25-2, for an owlet of your exceedingly tiny stature you have a fine posture as you peck."
"Thank you," Gylfie replied, and dipped her head in what she thought was a docile manner.
"You are most welcome, 25-2."
Then the owlet closest to Soren began, "12-1, your beak work is quite advanced. You work with industry and delicacy"
"Thank you," said Soren. And then for some reason he added, "Thank you very much."
"You're welcome. But you need not be excessively polite. It wastes energy. Politeness is its own reward -
- just like flecks."
"What are flecks?" The question slipped out, but many of the pellet songs referred to flecks and Soren could not understand for the life of him what they were. He understood the feathers and bones and teeth being found in the pellets, but what were these mysterious flecks? The two owlets each gave small piercing shrieks that contrasted sharply with their usual tones. "Question alarm! Question alarm!" Two ferocious, darkly feathered owls, their glaring yellow eyes framed above by dark red eye tufts, swooped down and plucked up Soren.
"How could you, Soren?" Gylfie nearly cried out, but luckily the question died on her beak.
Soren felt as if his gizzard were dropping to his talons as the two owls soared with him dangling between them. They were transporting him in a most painful manner. Each one held a wing in his talons and it was as if he were being torn in half! And as they spiraled upward in the pelletorium, Soren felt beneath him not the cushion of captured air of which his father had often spoken, but instead a surge of noisy vibrations that seem to pummel him from below.
"They are laughing at you, 12-1. They laugh so hard the air is tossed with their chuckles!" said one of the owls.
"You, 12-1," the other owl was speaking now. "You are our first object of the day for laughter therapy."
Soren remained mute. No matter how many questions might batter his brain, his imagination, or dance on the tip of his beak, he would never ask them. The two owls had now alighted with him on a very high ledge that was visible to the entire pelletorium below. The laughter of the owlets and the scores of monitors and guards ricocheted off the stone walls. It filled Soren's head with a terrible clatter. He thought he would go yoicks right there and start screaming.
"And now for the best moment of all in laughter therapy!" There was a shrill screech. The air stirred, and Skench, the Ablah General, landed next to Soren. And then Skench's second-in-command, Lieutenant Spoorn, arrived, eyes darting in an amber glee. Oh, great Glaux! thought Soren. What now?
